


Uneasy the Head

by Lesserstorm



Category: Viva La Vida - Coldplay
Genre: City States, M/M, Mercenaries, Politics, Renaissance, Revolutionaries, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesserstorm/pseuds/Lesserstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benesuto Torricelli, magister and scholar of the great alchemical University of Illyris rode into Montelero in early May. The town was much as he had expected; its lord however was not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uneasy the Head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reyka_Sivao](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyka_Sivao/gifts).



> Please see the end of the work for warnings (nothing very major)

Benesuto Torricelli, magister and scholar of the great alchemical University of Illyris and cousin to the Duke of Ferrara rode into Montelero in early May. He bore with him letters of introduction from his noble kinsman and curiosity to see how his own theoretical specialities of aenometry and gyromancy produced practical mechanisms in the hands of the artisans and manufacturers of the town.

Montelero itself was much as he had expected to find it: a fortified town, barely large enough to be called city or to survive independently of the region’s greater powers if it had not been for its inaccessible position, high in the Alpine foothills and away from any convenient trading routes. Past lords of the town had had the foresight to encourage practitioners and craftsmen of the new sciences since the days when they were thought of as pure magic and thriving manufacturies now crowded Montelero’s outskirts, with the town walls extended on two sides to accommodate them. The third side of the town fell sharply into a great ravine, ancient cliffs growing into the strong stonework of the lord’s palazzo and fortified homes of the town’s oldest families and the fourth gave way to docks and landing fields for the new airships.

If the mechanisms produced in Montelero lacked the elegance of the greatest craftspeople of Florence or the gravitas that came with production in Milan, their innovation was second to none, the most modern airships could be repaired at Montelero’s docks and new aids to navigation, calculation, far scrying and power generation jostled in its marketplaces.

Benesuto had had fewer expectations of the current lord; Roberto Caresini had come to Montelero at the head of a company of mercenaries in the last days of Leonardo Trasontin‘s lordship, engaged to fight a Genoese force making an ill-advised attempt to expand into alchemical manufacturing by force. The successful mercenaries had remained in Montelero; when Trasontin died childless three years later - with no indication of any cause but old age - Caresini had quietly but firmly taken over the lordship and moved into the palazzo.

A former mercenary did not seem an obvious ruler for a state so dependent on innovation and alchemical sciences; an assessment of the new status quo was one of the reasons Benesuto’s cousin had asked him to divert his journey back to Illyris. Montelero might be independent and inaccessible, but it was still of much use to the greater powers; it was said that you could obtain anything in Montelero if you had money to pay for it. The Duke wanted that to continue.

Six weeks later, Roberto Caresini had confounded the few expectations Benesuto had had. Oh he was strong and energetic, as befitted a mercenary leader, his fine linens and velvets could not hide firm muscles and sharp, decisive movements. He was a little older than Benesuto’s 26 years and had black eyes and hair and handsomely rugged features that Benesuto did his best not to dwell on. It would be foolish to deny the man was physically attractive, but Benesuto had met many attractive soldiers of fortune at his cousin’s court, and many athletic students and masters in Illyris.

Caresini seemed to rule Montelero firmly but fairly, he absorbed information and made swift, tactical judgements, but Benesuto had seen this type of statescraft before and it was not even unusual in a mercenary, certainly not in a mercenary who made the leap to lordship. No, the thing that that overturned all his assumptions was Caresini’s sharp, eager mind which seemed only to leap faster when considering things which had no obvious or immediate connection to either government or commerce.

A case in point was this evening approaching Midsummer. All the great and the good of Montelero – absent extensive lands or an established nobility, these were mainly guild masters, merchants, the wealthier owners of manufactories – were gathered at a reception in the lord’s palazzo. Benesuto had been accepted into these circles with all the respect due to Ferrara’s envoy and by now was very comfortable in them. There had been talk of tariffs and trade and of the latest news from Florence and Venice, but after dinner was over, a shy young artisan called Elisabetta Sanuto had been invited into the great hall to demonstrate her latest invention.

Her mechanism – a cylinder of brass with copper dials and a glass viewing pane designed to capture and manipulate aetheric traces in visible form – was shiny enough and the traces pretty enough to be a topic of polite after-dinner conversation. It was also unusual enough to arouse Benesuto’s professional interest; although it was not his field, he thought Sanuto had put together something that might make the work of theoretical spectromancers easier but even a scholar of Illyris had to admit that it had no obvious practical applications.

The merchants and manufacturers had realised this early on – “Such a charming toy,” said Nicolo Priuli condescendingly – and had generally moved on to other topics of conversation or a show of polite interest. Caresini however was examining the device in detail, asking technical questions and seeming at least to follow all Sanuto’s explanations.

“You see by making the cylinder vertical, I could make the chamber wider and flatter and better suited to visual viewing,” Sanuto explained.

Of course,” murmured Caresini, his mobile fingers skimming the dials, “and with the coefficient of torsion being inverted, you influence the direction of the aetheric trails.

Benesuto moved closer, his dark robes and long fair hair reflected starkly in the cylinder. “I understand you are a maker of horolometers,” he said to the young woman. “Yet you obviously have a keen mind for theory. If you ever wish to come to Illyris, come to see me and I will find you a place. The University always has space for keen young minds.”

Sanuto stuttered and thanked him; he hoped she would take up his offer. As an artisan, she would no doubt develop advanced and intricate machinery, but it seemed as if it would be a waste of her talents.

Later in the evening there was music and dancing, but Benesuto stuck to the edges of the room. Despite his relative youth, his sombre academic robes and grave demeanour discouraged potential partners and he was able to observe and plan his next report to his cousin.

Anna Maria, the Dowager Lady Trasontin was present as she always was at these gatherings, her face a serene mask and her conversation gracious and meticulously polite, giving no hint of her feelings – if any – about the young mercenary who had stepped into her late husband’s place.

The young hothead, Agustin Marano, was dancing a third time with Leandra Viadro. That was a pairing to watch, Benesuto thought absently. He had heard Marano in the taverns near the airfield, holding forth at length about the wonders of Republican governance, nothing that could quite be deemed treason if reported to Caresini, but radical enough that the lord’s guard no doubt kept him in their sights. He had not thought he would have a great deal in common with the sombre Viadro, but Agustin’s father was a prosperous merchant of small alchemical devices, while Leandra was heir to one of Montelero’s larger manufactories. Perhaps money and family interests were enough to forge a connection.

Elisabetta Sanuto, the attention of the assembly having moved towards the musicians and the dancefloor, had started dissembling her mechanism, packing the delicate parts into a box lined with fleece. She stretched to remove the highest valve and a man barrelled into her from behind. A copper pipe fell to the floor, dented out of shape, and his hands reached out to steady himself, falling on her breasts in a way that could almost have been accidental.

She shrank away from him, stepped backwards out of his reach and bent to pick up her damaged pipe.

“Damn mechanicals,” muttered Angelo Menegi. “Cluttering up respectable assemblies.”

If Montelero had been a significant enough town to have hereditary noble families, the Menegi’s would have been one of the first among them. A great grandfather had held the lordship and Angelo Menegi, Benesuto knew, had been actively involved in the same siege that brought Caresini to the town. He did not believe that Caresini’s elevation to lordship had been locally opposed and was not aware of any significant faction that would rather have Angelo Menegi as lord, but Menegi clearly resented being ruled by a mercenary from who knew where and it was not the first time that Benesuto had seen him exert his own power over more lowly persons, seemingly just to prove he could.

Now, Menegi kicked one support of the main cylinder and it tottered, Elisabetta moving forward again to steady it with both arms. “Still,” he continued, “at least you are shapely enough as mechanicals go.” He ran an appreciative hand over the curve of her back and hips.

Benesuto started to move forward. Elisabetta’s face betrayed fear and disgust, but she was clearly torn between moving out of Menegi’s reach and not abandoning her mechanism to further damage; even the broken pipework would not be easily replaced on an artisan’s wages. However Caresini was there before him.

“Now Angelo,” Caresini said. “You seem to be mistaking your way. I had not thought I had served such large quantities of wine tonight.” Though his tone was lazy, his hands firmly removed Menegi’s from Elisabetta’s person and twisted his arms behind his back. Benesuto spared a moment to admire that strength. “I would suggest you leave,” Caresini continued, pushing Menegi towards the doors.

Menegi’s face flushed an ugly beetroot, but he clearly did not wish the ignominy of being publicly evicted and he strode away angrily.

Benesuto watched Caresini help the young artisan gather her instruments again and moved away to talk with a group of young gallants who were keen for stories of his uncle’s court.

Later in the evening however, he took advantage of the thinning crowd to speak quietly with Caresini. “That was well done, with Menegi and Sanuto”

Caresini shrugged. “Even as a boy, Angelo Menegi was always a bully and a thug,” he said. “The difference now is that I can put him firmly in his place.”

Benesuto’s interest sharpened. He had never heard any suggestion that Caresini might have known or known of Monteleran families as a child and he was sure that he was too experienced a politician to have let that slip by accident. “As a boy?” he asked.

“As a boy,” Caresini confirmed, his lips twitching in amusement as he said no more.

They were standing very close together, a warm breeze blowing in from the ravine through an open window. The company was almost gone now and the shadows they stood in gave them the illusion of privacy. Caresini’s eyes were very dark and kind.

“Tell me I am not reading this wrongly,” he said and leaned in to take Benesuto’s lips in a brief but scorching kiss.

This was certainly a complication, but one that Benesuto now admitted he wanted, oh so badly. “You are not reading things wrongly at all,” he confirmed, “but perhaps we could move somewhere more private.”

“Scholars always have the best ideas,” agreed Caresini, taking his hand and leading him through a discreet door and along a narrow corridor to his private chambers.

 

* * *

 

Benesuto woke feeling cosy and very contented. His body ached pleasantly and a warm weight pressed all along one side.

Ah yes, memory came back. That had been a night of truly excellent sex. He stretched sleepily and turned to look at his companion. Caresini – Oh call him Roberto, it seemed silly to stand on formality after last night – protested slightly at the movement and snuffled a little into his pillow, but remained asleep.

Benesuto was taken almost by surprise by the affection that flooded through him. For this man to sleep soundly next to him was a show of trust far greater than love-making, no matter how passionate.

He was greatly tempted to wake Roberto and begin the day as they had ended the night, but he had a lot to think about. Reluctantly he disentangled himself from his sleeping lover, but could not resist dropping a single kiss on his lips.

“Mmm?” Roberto murmured sleepily.

“Go back to sleep,” said Benesuto softly. “We can speak later today.”

“Later,” confirmed Roberto, closing his eyes again.

Benesuto quietly gathered his clothes and slipped out of the lord’s chambers, nodding to the guards on duty and determinedly not betraying any embarrassment about being seen leaving in the morning wearing last night’s clothes.

After leaving the palazzo though, he was not yet ready to return to his lodgings and he wandered aimlessly through Montelero’s streets. It was one thing to sleep with a devastatingly attractive man; the problem was that he was already too fond of Roberto. He did not think that this sex created an unbearable conflict-of-interest; his instructions from his cousin had been to observe, not to negotiate on Ferrara’s behalf. But his entire life was in Illyris. There could be no future in falling for the lord of a remote mountain town.

His feet took him almost of their own accord to the airship docks. The town’s artisans and manufactory workers were already awake and the meaner alleyways rang with the sound of metal on metal and the commotion of clockwork and steam driven machines.

At the airfield, he found an abandoned but sturdy shed and pulled himself easily up to its roof where he could sit alone and think. There was nothing to be done he decided. He liked Roberto, not just his magnificent body, but his quick mind, his understanding, his passion for science and the way his ruthlessness was tempered with kindness. Roberto might have seen last night as a one-off occasion, but if he wanted more, Benesuto would grab hold of whatever he could get.

That decided, he lay back to watch the clouds. The airfield was still quiet; no ships were preparing to take off, although at the far end of the fields a group of artisans seem to be experimenting with a miniature heliflyer. He noted that with interest – the technology had been known for some time, but no one had yet managed to create a version strong enough to take a person’s weight. It could be argued that this was not so practically critical since the development of the great gas powered airships, but he had a colleague in the faculty of Aenometry who was still working on the theory she thought would be needed to scale up a rotary flyer or to enable a human to fly with wings.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of people walking along the gravel path below him. He held very still, not wanting to be discovered on the roof of an abandoned shed. It was two people he realised, engaged in intense but quiet conversation.

“Yes,” one of them said in a familiar voice, “we will know for sure we can trust our sources if Caresini acts according to their information.” Benesuto realised with a start that it was Agustin Marano, though his companion’s voice was softer, saying something that Benesuto could not catch.

“He will!” Marano replied triumphantly. “His plan is in place, Caresini will move and we will have him.”

The voices faded as they moved past and Benesuto carefully raised his head. The young man was indeed Marano and his companion was Leandra Viadro.

He thought hard about what he had overheard. A snatch of conversation only, but it certainly sounded like a plot against Roberto. Here then was the conflict of interest he had hoped to avoid. His brief had been to observe only; his cousin would take a very dim view of him dragging Ferrara into Monteleran politics, yet his heart told him to warn his lover. Was one night enough to compromise him?

He may not even be your lover he told himself sternly. One night does not a relationship make. And whatever Marano and Viadro are planning may not be much of a plot. It was decided then. He would wait and see how things developed, but he would certainly now watch those two young people more carefully.

 

* * *

 

On Midsummer’s Day the whole populace of the town gathered in the great cathedral for the feast Day of St Demetrio, patron of the city. Benesuto stood towards the back, watching the leading citizens and the masses move throughout the great vaulted space, Bishop Lorenzo and his priests preparing for mass, merchants still negotiating deals, barefoot children playing tag and hide and seek among the crowds. Roberto, wearing a ridiculously large, many caped cloak was surrounded by his entourage, Angelo Menegi had bodyguards and hangers on of his own, standing across the cathedral and glaring at the lord. The Dowager Lady Trasontin stood aloof from both, attended by many of her household, but using the time before the service to talk with her elderly contemporaries and now and then raising a finger to summon someone else to her side. The young artisan, Elisabetta, was among those honoured in this way.

Benesuto’s gaze was drawn away from the ladies by a presence leaning against the wall at his side. In spite of the crowds clamouring for his attention, Roberto Caresini had somehow slipped away unnoticed and was now leaning against the wall at Benesuto’s side. Benesuto smiled at him, unexpectedly shy – it was not as if Caresini were the only man he had ever spent a night with or even the best looking – but ridiculously glad to see him.

“Good day my lord,” said Benesuto, prepared to take his cue from the other man.

“And to you too,” Roberto replied, a gleam in his eyes indicating that he knew exactly what Benesuto was doing. “This is neither the time nor place,” he gestured to the front of the cathedral where the choirmaster was fumbling with his music and the choristers had begun to take their places, “but I wonder if I might interest you in another, more private meeting?”

“Oh yes” said Benesuto, in relief. “That is, I would like that very much.” He could feel a foolish grin on his face but did not care much as it was matched with Roberto’s own.

His happiness clouded slightly as he thought of the snatch of conversation he had overheard on the airship fields. It was certainly in Roberto’s interests to know, yet as Ferrara’s envoy Benesuto should remain entirely neutral to Montelero’s internal affairs.

Perhaps a hint. He leant towards Roberto and lowered his voice. “You should be aware I have heard rumours of unrest and talk of civic republics in the taverns by the airfield.”

Roberto smiled at him. “People will always talk. Montelero has not been a republic since the days when the Menegi were lords for the first time. And Angelo Menegi is waiting eagerly for any opportunity to make them lords again.”

Benesuto frowned. “But still –“

“I know the people of Montelero,” said Roberto. “I was born in the shadows of the manufactories, my father was a journeyman graphometrist and I learnt this town sitting at his workbench. People may grumble, but I can assure you that they want Angelo as lord far less than they want me.”

Benesuto knew he was openly gaping at this revelation. In all the gossip and intelligence he had gained, both in Montelero itself and before he set out from his cousin’s court, there had never been any suggestion that Caresini was local to the town, or that his background was anything other than that usual for a leader of mercenaries, a younger son of minor nobility making his own way in the world by his sword and other talents. He had hidden his plebeian origins well.

“No one ever expects craftsmen to raise their children literate and educated,” said Roberto, ”any more than they expect an interest in science and literature in a captain of mercenaries. I have never understood why; in these days of expanding sciences, craftsmen and artisans could hardly do their work if they were uneducated.”

Benesuto felt suddenly shamed by this show of trust when he himself was being so sparing with information. “What I heard…” He began.

But the first notes of the organ were sounding through the cathedral and the bells began to ring, calling the unruly crowd to worship.

“Later,” said Roberto. “I hope in any case you will be interested in joining me again tonight in my chambers.” He lent in and grasped Benesuto’s hand firmly, Benesuto thought that if the venue had been slightly less public Roberto would have kissed him. In any case his smile held both lust and pure camaraderie as he strode away to take his place at the front of the cathedral.

As the music of the first anthem died away, the priests started to intone the words of the mass. Roberto stood at ease, his face a mask of piety, the picture of a great lord with no cares beyond attention to the sacrament. The crowd had quietened also, the barefoot children standing with their parents or gathered by pillars and the merchants having laid aside commerce at last. Scanning the crowd, Benesuto caught sight of Agustin Marano and Lucia Viadro standing together; his gaze returned to the altar just in time to catch sudden movement towards the front of the church.

He lunged forward, knowing he would be too late to help. Why had he not thought that – if the conspirators were willing to risk sacrilege – the cathedral was an excellent location for a coup. Shouts echoed around him as he pushed forward, some of the crowd doing likewise while others tried to back away. It could not have taken him more than three minutes to reach the front of the cathedral, but by the time he could see what was going on everyone had stilled again. A dozen darkly clad men – mercenaries, his mind recognised – still held swords and daggers, but each was now held tight by two of Roberto’s men. Roberto himself barely looked ruffled though his bodyguard pressed tightly around him. It looked as if the assassins had been identified and stopped before reaching him, especially as the men holding them had not been part of Roberto’s original entourage but stationed in the crowd.

The priest at the altar exchanged a nervous look with Bishop Lorenzo who stepped forward to ask for an explanation.

“Apologies, my lord Bishop, for the interruption in this holy service,” said Roberto. “However I think it should be apparent that this was an attempted coup.”

The captured men shifted uncomfortably; one could not expect mercy when failing in assassination.

Nicolo Priuli hurried officiously forward. “These men must be taken immediately to jail” he said. “We must establish just who sent them and why.”

“In fact,” said Roberto, “I believe I already know.”

There was a commotion at the back of the cathedral and a score more men were led forward, already bound and escorted by more of Roberto’s men, led by Tobias Utino, the captain of his guard.

“Yes indeed” continued Roberto, “I present to you Guido Gozzano, mercenary of some note. What brings you and your men to Montelero Gozzano?” The mercenary leader just glared at him and Roberto turned to Utino instead. “Report,” he demanded.

“The streets have been secured and all our miscreants apprehended.”

“Excellent news,” replied Roberto. “Grant me a little more grace my lord Bishop and the service shall resume. It remains only to ask who has paid for my assassination. And this is the work of Angelo Menegi.”

There was a brief noise of shock among the crowd before the people stilled again, waiting to see their lord’s next move.

Menegi himself had stiffened but he managed a good impression of honest indignation when he asked “What ridiculous charge is this? Would you accuse me of desecrating the holy Sacrament in the church my own ancestors built? You have no evidence; there is none for you to have.”

“You think your mercenaries will lie for you?” asked Roberto. “You might be ill-advised to do so. You do not have the best track record of loyalty to agreements with hired men.” He reached inside that ridiculous cloak, withdrew a sheaf of letters and turned to face the crowd.

“Five years ago,” he declared, “Montelero was under attack by Genoa. You, Angelo Menegi, hired at your personal expense elite fighters under the command of Claudio Tiepolo and they fought bravely to defend the Colle San Sebastian. It appeared to be no more than the tragic fortunes of war that they were overcome and the Genoese forces were free to sweep towards Montelero itself. If it were not for the late lord Leonardo Trasontin bringing my forces in, the town would surely have fallen.

“I say it appeared to be the tragic fortunes of war – I have recently obtained letters to the Genoese commander showing that Tiepolo’s force was betrayed from within, in exchange for money and the promise of high position once Montelero was taken. These letters, Angelo Menegi, are in your hand, Tiepolo and his men were slaughtered through your treachery and it is through your treachery that Montelero very nearly became a Genoese possession.”

“Lies!” cried Menegi. “Forgeries!”

But the crowd was shouting now and the captured mercenaries looked doubtful. The priest at the altar was wringing his hands, but the bishop’s face had settled into a grave mask and he stood back, letting the scene play out.

“It is easily proven,” said Roberto. Once more he reached inside his cloak and drew out a small metal instrument, an aetheric graphometer. “Perhaps my lord Bishop would do the honours.”

Bishop Lorenzo moved forward, taking both papers and the instrument. “These letters are indeed as lord Caresini says,” he agreed. He spread the papers on the altar itself and opened the graphometer’s sensing arms to scan them. The noise of the crowd faded a little as he turned the dial and the aetheric hum and glow indicated that the instrument was warming up. People around him craned to see the outcome, but it seemed to Benesuto that it was never in doubt – Roberto would surely never have made such a public accusation if he could not prove its truth. And indeed the graphometer’s golden glow became a single ray of light reaching across the cathedral to envelop Menegi before fading away again.

Menegi paled and turned to run, but the crowd was angry now, pressing on him from all sides and it was easy enough for Utino’s men to lay hands on him and bring him back before Roberto. The bishop was trying to calm the raging mob that his congregation had become but it was not until Roberto joined him to make pronouncements as lord that some semblance of order was restored.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later and things seemed clearer. In exchange for safe passage away for himself and his men, Gozzano had confessed to being hired by Menegi to assassinate Roberto, put down any of his men who continue to fight after his death and provide any other military support needed for Menegi to take control of Montelero. Roberto had pronounced banishment on Menegi, who had been led away white and trembling. Benesuto privately thought the sentence overly merciful; still with the whole populace as witnesses to his treason, Menegi would clearly never be able to return to Montelero.

The service had resumed, mass had been said and Montelerans of all ranks still thronged the cathedral, reluctant to disperse until all was done and it was clear there would be no more excitement that night. Lady Trasontin and her entourage were among the first to leave, the crowd drawing aside respectfully to let her pass. She had remained silent and aloof during Roberto’s accusation of Menegi, but she gave him a single nod of respect as she left.

As if her departure was a sign, townspeople of ranks surged forward, merchants, guild masters and manufacturers all eager to assure lord Caresini of their loyalty, of their commitment to his cause, their horror of the treachery revealed.

Benesuto looked round and thought he should leave – Roberto’s promise of “later” had after all been made before he had known he would spend the afternoon dealing with assassins and a traitor and he was now arranging for several parties to attend him in the palazzo. There would always be tomorrow. Before he had taken half a dozen steps however he became aware of one of Roberto’s bodyguards at his side. “My lord’s compliments,” the man said, “and he would be pleased if you would join the company at the palazzo to bear witness.” Benesuto inclined his head graciously and moved back towards the group of gesticulating Montelerans. There were some advantages after all to being an envoy from the Duke of Ferrara.

Back in the palazzo, the chaos continued. Every citizen wanted to assure their lord of their loyalty and to assure themselves that they were important enough for Roberto to speak to them individually after an attempted coup. It was well past midnight before people started to drift away, but gradually the room emptied to hold just Benesuto, Roberto and several of his guards.

“Is all done, Tobias?” Roberto asked.

“All done,” Utino replied. “Menegi was allowed to pack his personal possession and I have sent Ricardo and Paolo to ride with him northwards as far as Casalvaria. Giacomo and forty men will escort Gozzano and his band south-west, until they reach the Venetian borders, but there is no fear of them trying to return to Menegi. At this point they just want to be well rid of him and his treacherous ways and to find a contract that may actually be profitable.”

“And our men have been paid?”

“All paid, those that were on the road and those few that remain here.” Utino hesitated, looking towards Benesuto. “It is not too late…”

“No, no,” said Roberto. “All is now secure.” He surprised Benesuto by coming forward to grasp Utino’s forearms and draw him into a rough hug. “My thanks for everything, old friend,” he said,” and God bless you”.

And then Utino left, Roberto dismissed his remaining guards and they were alone.

“At last,” breathed Roberto, striding quickly over to Benesuto and taking his chin in one firm hand. “I was dreaming of this throughout every last one of these conversations.”

“Enough talk,” said Benesuto, reaching up to kiss his lover. “I’ve wanted this, wanted you…” He broke off to give proper attention to Roberto’s demanding tongue in his mouth. He vaguely remembered he had something more to tell Roberto, but if the alternative was kissing, talking could wait.

Roberto’s hand pushed his magister’s gown off his shoulders, curving behind him to gently squeeze one buttock. Benesuto was suddenly and achingly hard and his hips started forwards pressing against Roberto’s answering hardness. His own arms pressed under Roberto’s cloak, searching for buckles and ties that might give him access to skin.

Roberto broke the kiss, breathing heavily, only to catch trail hot bite marks over Benesuto’s neck, ending with teeth tugging gently on his ear.

“My chambers, now,” gasped Roberto. He had all the best ideas Benesuto thought hazily and they fumbled their way through the palazzo’s corridors, pausing frequently for more kisses and for Benesuto to lose more clothes. He was in his shirt sleeves, his shirt itself hanging open when Roberto finally manoeuvred him through the door to his bedchamber, slamming it behind them and turning triumphantly to press Benesuto back against it.

“And now, and now…” Roberto began huskily –

A throat cleared pointedly.

Roberto slowly turned round and Benesuto froze. Agustin Marano, Leandra Viadro and seven or eight more young men and women, all armed with blunderbusses or swords, were arranged around the room, guns and swords at the ready.

“Hands away from your bodies please,” said Viadro.

Benesuto and Roberto slowly complied, Benesuto cursing himself inwardly the whole time. They had been so eager to dismiss the guards, so sure that the coup had failed and there was nothing to fear in the palazzo itself, too distracted to even see that they were not alone, let alone reach for their own weapons.

“Easy there,” said Roberto. “I know you are no friends to Angelo Menegi. Whatever the reason for this intrusion, we can surely negotiate an end to this amicably.”

“Negotiate!” spat Marano. “We have no wish to negotiate with a despot. We have a document prepared for you to sign.” He gestured towards the writing desk by the window.

Viadro took over, her voice calm and precise in contrast to Marano’s passion. “These papers declare that you renounce all position and rights in Montelero in favour of a civic republic of the guilds and householders of substance. We cannot unfortunately trust to your word that you would leave the town so you will be confined in gaol and tried on charges of tyranny. However if you sign the papers willingly and admit all charges, banishment may be open to you as it was for Menegi.”

“I see,” said Roberto mildly. “However, while I am certainly outnumbered tonight, may I ask what happens if I do not sign your declaration?”

“I think you will find it in your interests to do so,” said Viadro. “You are right in saying that we are no friends to Angelo Menegi – nor he to us. You disposed of him very neatly today in full public view. What however do you think the public reaction would be if it were known that the letters you produced were forgeries?”

“We don’t just have swords and guns, you see,” announced Marano triumphantly. “We have information that your graphometer is a fake. Just a pretty box, keyed to Menegi’s aetheric signature and not capable of identifying anyone’s handwriting at all.”

“Of course, if we are wrong,” said Viadro, “it should be the easiest thing in the world to disprove. Simply allow the machine to be tested. However I don’t think you can do that can you?”

“So,” said Marano, “you will sign. And that shall start our new Republic off neatly; no messy accusations of justice denied, no claimants to lordship waiting in the wings, the new charter laid out cleanly as your last act before resignation. We will even have an impeccable witness that the signature was yours. We must thank Signor Torricelli for bringing you here unawares and without guards, but that has only avoided the risk of a temporary disturbance; you cannot fight your way out of this and still remain lord of Montelero.”

Benesuto paled at Marano’s insinuation, surely Roberto would not suspect that Benesuto had been involved in this. But he had not passed on the full rumours he had heard and he had certainly been the reason Roberto was distracted tonight.

Roberto himself was very still. “It seems you leave me no choice indeed,” he said. Two quick strides brought him to his writing desk. He quickly read over the papers set out there, took the quill lying ready and signed them.

The tension in the room relaxed somewhat. Benesuto realised that the conspirators had not been as certain of their facts as they had sounded; or perhaps they had just not been certain that their new Republic could truly be established without bloodshed.

“So,” said Roberto lightly, “now you clap me in irons to await trial?” His gaze passed over everyone in the room, lingering a little on Benesuto. “I think that would not suit me.” In one movement he flung the cloak from his shoulders and dived, headfirst, out of the window and into the great ravine.

Benesuto cried out, a pained sound. No man could survive a fall like that. He saw that some of the revolutionaries had paled too; then they had genuinely not meant the evening to end with Roberto Caresini’s death.

And yet… Benesuto ran those moments back through his mind in slow motion. There had been something unusual about Roberto’s silhouette as he leapt. Ignoring the weapons still drawn, he rushed to the window.

The moonlight glinted off a great shape gliding southwards through the ravine and away from Montelero. As Benesuto’s eyes adjusted to the dim light outside, he realised he had been right. Those shapes were mechanical wings, worn in a pack on Roberto’s back, hidden by his ridiculous cloak and unfurled as he jumped through the window. He might no longer hold the lordship of Montelero, but he had at least escaped alive.

 

* * *

 

Benesuto left Montelero on horseback, eight weeks after he had arrived, feeling scarred by the experience. He was glad that Roberto was still – presumably and so long as his wing pack had not failed – alive and it would have been ridiculous in any case to think the relationship between them could have worked, but he still regretted that he had not given his lover a better warning.

Things had settled down in the few days since he had been left half dressed with the young revolutionaries in Roberto’s bedchamber. The town’s new charter had been publicised, the merchants and Guild leaders reassured that they would have an appropriate share of power and there would be no interruption to trade.

There had been no further sign of Angelo Menegi or of Gozzano’s mercenaries. There was no sign either of Roberto Caresini; the bulk of his guard had never returned from escorting Gozzano away from the town and his remaining few men had melted away. Benesuto suspected that the children of Montelero would tell stories for years to come of a man with wings sweeping through the ravine, but there had been no reliable sightings.

Benesuto had gathered his dignity and belongings and remained in town only long enough to write an encoded report; even shaken from the loss of a love affair, he had obligations as his cousin’s envoy. The previous evening he had attended a reception held by the interim council in the palazzo and announced that it was past time for him to be on the road to Illyris. Leandra Viadro shock his hand, ironically expressed her gratitude for his help in founding the new Republic and noted that he would have much to report to the Duke.

And that was that. He retired to bed in good time and left his lodgings shortly after dawn. By the time the Cathedral clock chimed six, he was on horseback, blunderbuss and sword strapped within easy reach, waiting for the city gates to be opened. There were few travellers on the road, but he expected to make his way through the Colle San Sebastian by evening and would reach a more populated highway the next day.

The road out of Montelero zigzagged downwards for the first mile or so and he paused to look back at the town walls in the early morning sunlight before turning finally away. His route onwards took him through a narrow gap between two rocky outcrops. In the shadows another cloaked horseman was waiting.

Benesuto dropped his hands to his sword hilt but rode cautiously forward. The other man drew back his hood and revealed himself to be Roberto Caresini.

“You are still here! I had thought you halfway to Venice by now.”

“And yet here I am.”

“Those wings were amazing. I had not thought that anyone had yet managed to create sufficient lift from artificial wings to take a human’s weight.”

“I thank you. They are of my own design, though I must admit that they still function best  
as gliders. They are sufficient however for an escape from high places.”

“I am sorry,” said Benesuto, hesitantly. “I swear I did not set you up to be caught unawares without your guard present, but if I had told you more of my suspicions in the Cathedral you might not have been caught at all.”

“I never dreamed you had been involved,” Roberto reassured him, “and for the rest of it, don’t worry. Menegi is still gone and whatever our young conspirators think they know or do not know, he is unlikely to ever be welcome in Montelero again.”

“I swear this will go no further, but were Marano and Viadro right? Did Menegi really betray his town and his men at the siege of Colle san Sebastian or did you fake it all?”

“Oh he was in league with the Genoese forces all right,” said Roberto. “We were fortunate indeed that the town did not fall. I only ensured that there would be sufficient evidence to damn him publicly; there was always the risk that he would otherwise try to return.”

“So that is why you were seemingly so merciful ,” Benesuto realised. “ You did not want the evidence to be brought before a formal trial. With public denunciation and immediate banishment there would have been no reason to question the authenticity of your evidence if one of your own people had not betrayed you and told the conspirators that the graphometer was a fake.” Yet there was still something which did not quite add up. What reason after all to wear the wings if he had not expected anything to go wrong. “Roberto? Were you betrayed? You surely did not send them that information yourself?”

“There is no reason,” said Roberto, “why Montelero should not be a perfectly functional Republic. So long as parasites like Menegi don’t manage to lay claim to it and I have ensured that he cannot. The townsfolk will have to make their own future now.” It was an evasion, but it was also as close to an answer as Benesuto thought he was likely to get.

“So what will you do now? Is Utino waiting for you with your guards? Will you go back to the life of a sword for hire?

Roberto laughed. “No,” he said, “those days are behind me. My men have been well paid and released to seek other service. I may have been deposed as lord, but I have been carefully saving against just such a day. I carry letters of credit on banking houses across Europe; I can live now as a gentleman.”

“So where will you go?”

For the first time, Roberto looked uncertain. “I have heard,” he said, “ that keen new scholars are always welcome in Illyris.”

Benesuto stared. “You’re coming with me,” he said wonderingly.

“If you will have me, Benesuto.”

If he would have him! Benesuto guided his horse closer to Roberto’s and drew him into a passionate kiss.

They might have stood there an hour, if it were not for the restless movement of their horses. Benesuto pulled away a little to get his mount back under control. “I absolutely cannot have my way with you,” he said, “on the road out of Montelero, within a mile of the town gates.”

Roberto’s smile was pure sex. “That’s not a problem,” he said. “I am carrying an excellent bed roll and I know this country well. I can guarantee a good secluded place to make camp tonight and then you may have me any way you wish.”

Benesuto let out a shaky laugh. “By tonight I may well be half dead with frustration.” But the future suddenly stretched out before him, bright and hopeful.

They turned entirely away from Montelero and rode towards Illyris together.

**Author's Note:**

> Content note - one scene includes brief sexual harassment of a minor female character (this is not by either protagonist and it is quickly stopped, but please read with caution if that's likely to be an issue for you)


End file.
